Dreams of Ghostly Nature
by darklordcthlahlu
Summary: Role Reversal AU E/C. A masked face and wild curls inspire ramblings of the stagehands. The new director wishes to find out the truth of this Angel of Music. ALW, Leroux and Kay.
1. Chapter 1

_Oh dear god in heaven_.

Erik took in the sight of the performers rehearsing and shuddered. When he had heard of the great parisian opera house in need of a director, he thought it was the perfect opportunity. Possibly they had gone a month or two without a director. But this gave him the impression of a year, maybe more. The ballet was all a half beat out of step, some basson was out of tune, and that chorus was dreadful. All these thoughts slipped away when he heard her voice.

It ripped through him like a bullet. The notes were all in tune, but every word crafted in staccato style. She rose to high and over dramafied the triumphant battle cry. Actually, from her voice it sounded as though it could be part of the comedic part of _Hannibal_. Well she would have to go.

"Friends. You may all have heard that our months without a director are over, and that is correct!" the managers said in near unison. "Monsieur Destler will now head the theater and its productions. Be assured he is a genius and will treat you well."

"Hello, I will be making changes to how things will be ran. First off, you must go", he gestured straight to the owner of that hideous instrument.

A silence fell over the crowd.

"You cannot fire La Carlotta!" the manager squealed.

"That is La Carlotta? I thought someone of such high standing in the opera would at least have a passing voice."

"This is an outrage! My voice has been likened to an angel!" said Carlotta.

"Ah of course, I must take the word of the uneducated masses who listen to your screech!" He took a step towards her, but was stopped by the M. Firmin.

"M. Destler, you must excuse our Prima Donna. You must of heard her at a wrong time perhaps you could her another song?"

"I don't wish to hear another sound from her," he seethed.

Ignoring his criticism, M. Andre said, "Madame, isn't there a rather marvelous aria for Elyssa in Act 3 of _Hannibal_?"

With a snide look thrown his way, she smiled and replied, "Yes, there is."

"Well then perform it madame." He bit back a distasteful insult.

She gestured to the orchestra, "Start playing you buffoons!"

The opening tune played and she opened her mouth. He expected this. Her voice still made the same errors as before. Nothing changed except that the aria sounded worse. He about called for her to stop but was cut off by the shifting of something above.

Before he could look a backdrop tumbled down striking M. Carlotta down. She wept as the cast members shuffled to remove the scene. Her voice sounded even worse coming out in sobs.

"These things do happen, you understand?" The managers said.

"Oh yes! These things do 'appen! For the past three years these things do 'appen! And did you stop these thing from 'appening? No! So I will be leaving before these things 'appen again!" The terrible woman thankfully left, taking her dreadful accent with her.

"Oh dear she's left again."

"Good, we need to hold auditions soon for her part as Elyssa."

"That's all you have to say? We lost the most sought after soprano in the country!" The idiots must have been deaf. For even a child could discern that her voice was hardly sublime.

"All for the better, she seemed to be aging out of her voice. I would like to speak with the other performers."

"First, monsieur, I have a note." A older woman came forth.

"A note you say?" He took it from her.

 _Dear Erik Destler,_

 _I see you also share my opinion on that abysmal soprano. I wish you luck to convince my managers of our shared standing. Anyways, I would like to welcome you to my opera house. As long as you follow MY orders your stay her should be quite fruitful._

 _Sincerely yours,_

 _O.G._

The note was written in a garish shade of red and with the shakiness of a child. Still, he felt chills.

"Who was this from?"

M. Andre said, " Oh the opera ghost, of course! The entire crew is obsessed with the idea of a masked phantom. He is the reason the stagehands are always drunk and the ballet rats late." He sounded exasperated by the end of his spiel.

"Oh of course. A ghost," he replied flatly.

"Anyways monsieur, I'm sure you would to see the rest of the cast."

 **Sorry if Erik seems a little OOC i'm still trying to grasp his character. This role reversal plot has brewing for some time now. I had originally posted a chapter but decided it needed revamped. Sorry fpr any me this seems cleaner. If anyone notices an error please comment about it. I'm unbetad but if any one has a little free time i need one. I'm a terrible editor.**

 **Anyways, i'm unsure of how to put Raoul in without completely bashing the character. If anyone has an idea i'm open to suggestions. Aaaalso anyone have a title suggestion? If someone comes up with a good one i'd write a short fic of their choosing? Or a fanart. Check my blog out darklordpthlaho please.**

 **Alright that;s enough rambling. I should have the next chapter up soon. See y'all later :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**By the way. I uploaded a new version of chapter 1 so check that out if you will. This part is mostly separated though. Enjoy.**

 _4_

Her first memory is of music.

Warm, soft music caressing her body. To her youthful ears the sound is beautiful. The sound is gently drawn out of the violin with shaking hands. It warbles and aches, but still sings sweetly.

"Father? May I try?" She begs with pleading eyes.

"Of course, my angel."

Tenderly, she draws the instrument to her chin. She first strokes the bow to the string. Then, confident in her strokes she whiddles a tune of her own. Christine giggles with delight at the sound produced from her own hands.

Her giggling stops as she sees the rather odd expression on her father's face. Father looks at her with sadness. That look was quickly replaced with a crinkled smile.

"Come along dearest. It's time for little girls to sleep."

 _6_

"But why must I wear the mask, Father?" Christine hated the cold clammy feeling the mask left. "It's itchy and cold."

"It is for your own good, sweetling."

"Why though? Little Lotte never had to wear a mask." She clenched her fists and glared through the holes cut into the leather.

"Christine, that is enough. You will wear the mask." Her father nevered yelled or spoke harshly to her. She took a step backwards and felt the inkling to start crying.

He saw the glisten in her eyes and immediately swept her into his arms. He mumbled his apology and began to weep into Christine's shoulder. Confused and startled she wept along with him.

"Why can't we go outside everyday?"

"You are very delicate, my dear. We would not want to stress you." With that she was reassured.

They strolled arm-in-arm along the beach. Her father would speak to her as a fine maiden. She always giggled with joy at being called 'm'lady' or 'your highness'. The beach was sheathed with shade from the stormy skies. She found it quite odd that they only went out when the weather was unfavorable. If she was so delicate why not go in the warmth of the sun? Instead father always chose the stormy days. The days when the boy was not ther.

The window in her room showed the entire cove. Father often had to travel and work, so to amuse herself beyond the piano she would watch him. He always had a smile adorning is face. With that grin he was the embodiment of a character from one of father's tales. She would sit up in her room and dream that she was a princess stuck up in a tower. The boy, of course, was her prince to save her from the evil dragon.

Her father looked up from her and squinted, before taking her hand and beckoning her away. Christine turned around as a gust of wind hit her and snatched away her red scarf. A material possession, but one that used to belong to her mother. Without thinking she cast her mask aside and swam into the ocean after it.

The most activity she had done all her life was playing concertos. Her nimble fingers could not help her swim to where the red scarf was bobbing. Salty tears and water mixed as the steady beat of waves pushed her back to shore. She kept pushing, and out of the corner of her eye the boy swam by. Her prince must be part seal! He swam through the waves steadily as she was pushed back to shore. Christine saw the boy begin to swim back to shore and cheered excitedly for him. The cold wind nipped her face and she realized she was missing her mask. She crouched low and shuffled through the sand searching for the worn leather.

"Excuse me, miss. I believe this is your scarf."

Happily she turned around to be met by a cruel sound. The boy's face was erupted in a crinkle of tears. The scream pierced her ears, and she wanted it to stop. She fell to the sand and pressed her hands to her ears and closed her eyes. Christine opened her eyes as vomit splashed against her shoes. He was still screaming and still crying. Trails of vomit dripped down his face. The look he gave her was the scariest sight she ever saw. Something must be behind her. She wanted that to be true, but is eyes were on her alone. Christine would rather there be a cruel monster behind her than to be the one who brought forth such a visage.

The boy finally stopped and fell to the sand. For a few short moments all she could do was watch his crumpled form. Two strong arms lifted her up. Her father cradled her head into his chest and began to run in the direction of the house.

"I should never… she can never go out...my sweet child." Only portions of words were caught between her sobs.

The window no longer held an appeal. It reminded her of him. He who screamed so cruelly at her. Him with his perfect face that was less perfect crumpled in fear.

All she did for the remaining hours of light was lay in her bed. Christine felt unable to express how she felt in words or movements.

Why had he screamed so cruelly?

To look into the mirror required great work for Christine.

Firstly, she had to wait until Father had fallen asleep. Then, she had to drag a chair quietly to the washing room. Once there though all she had to do was climb.

She scrambled quickly onto the counter and looked into glass. The picture in the mirror was one of pure horror. Instead of beautiful plump cheeks she saw a thin layer of skin. The round features prominent in books were absent. All the face was sunken and hollow. The veins she saw in books, were pulsing violently beneath the translucent layer. The worst though, was the nose.

Her father had a large nose with a prominent hook. Not exactly beautiful but sweet to her eyes. The cruel boy had a small button nose. The countless books she looked through had noses of many shapes and sizes. In that mirror all she saw was a gaping black hole. As her breathing increased the surrounding flesh puckered and grew.

All she wanted was it to go away. Clenching her fists she began to smash and break the mirror. Shards splintered into her hands. A moment of clarity gave her the insight to use her head against the mirror for without hands she couldn't make music. So she began to crash her small head into the glass.

Her father burst in and pulled her away. She felt nothing as her body shook and shook and shook and shook. Her eyes blurred the colors. The soothing voice of her father was distorted and all she feel was the sweet nothingness before her.

 **At least she had a good childhood until this. Right? So happy time was over pretty quick for her. Is it odd that I get into this headspace easier than Erik's? Well whatever. Next time for Christine might be worse idk yet. Just a warning. I'm also changing this to a M rating.**


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